


Spilled Over

by SailorChibi



Series: Potter!lock AU [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Facials, First Time, Hufflepuff John, John is technically of age, M/M, Professor Sherlock, Quidditch Player John, Student John, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teen John, it's teacher/student sex in the HP world, magical au, professor/student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has a crush on a certain Potions professor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spilled Over

**Author's Note:**

> So I was on Tumblr and I happen to follow Fuckyeahteenlock and... honestly, I expect that probably explains it all.
> 
> I don't own Sherlock or Harry Potter.

The day dawns bright and hot with just enough of a breeze to take the edge off. It's the perfect day for Quidditch. Even after they get up into the air and start losing spectacularly to Slytherin, John maintains that it's a gorgeous day. 

He tightens his grip on his broom and scans the sky for the quaffle, but for the time being the chasers are wrestling over it down on the far end of the field. He's being given a moment's reprieve and it feels good to just sit and bask in the warm sunlight, because after the long winter they've had everyone had all started to wonder if the sun would ever show up again. Quidditch is infinitely more enjoyable when heating charms don't have to be cast every ten minutes to avoid freezing.

"And Winters steals the quaffle and - yes! 10 points for Hufflepuff!"

John joins in the cheering, waving his free hand above his head. Winters grins and does a quick loop with her broom. She's one of the newest chasers on their team, still young, but John doesn't regret selecting her. She's quick and small, able to get in where the other chasers can't, and she works well with Murray and Smith. It's not their fault that the Keeper for Slytherin, Donovan, is spectacular at what she does. She guards the goals like they're the most important thing in existence, and if she weren't such a bitch John might actually respect her for it. 

He casts a glance over at the scoreboard, which reads 50 to 10, and grits his teeth. He knows he can't let Slytherin win this time, not if he wants any chance at the cup during his last year. "Come on, team!" he shouts. "Let's get it together!"

The quaffle comes soaring towards him and John reacts instinctively, snapping his broom up - but no: just before he gets there, a bludger comes sailing towards him and he freezes, pain momentarily aching in his shoulder, and the bludger passes harmlessly by two feet away while the quaffle goes sailing through the left goal. Slytherin is up to 70 points and John hates himself, because before last year he would've ignored the bludger in favour of stopping that quaffle and now he doesn't, he stops, and it feels a bit like failure. He returns to the middle hoop, this time studiously not examining the scoreboard, and that's when he sees him.

Professor Sherlock Holmes has made no effort whatsoever to hide his general disdain of Quidditch. He doesn't care who wins, doesn't play favourites with the players the way some professors do, and never comes to games. But there he is, sitting in the Top Box with the rest of the professors - yet apart from them as well, because there is a good three feet of space all the way around him, like he's put up some invisible barrier that they have no choice but to obey. He's wearing a blue scarf around his slender throat and is all bundled up in a dark cloak. The collar of the cloak is turned up, highlighting his cheekbones, and John's throat goes very dry because he can feel Holmes looking at him even though they're too far away for their eyes to meet.

What is he doing here? John feels like laughing hysterically, because in his seven years of being at Hogwarts Holmes has never attended a single game. But he's here now and he's watching John. John, who's doing a piss poor job of being a Keeper at the moment because he's allowed seven goals to go by him already. Who might end up losing the first game of Quidditch that he's been able to play in almost a year. His fingers go cold around the handle of his broom in spite of the warmth of the day, and he can't. Stop. Staring.

"Bloody hell, Watson!"

Sawyer looms over him suddenly, her fingers curled possessively around her bat as she swings it around her right shoulder and gives a bludger a good crack. It goes sailing in the other direction and she says, "The fuck, Watson? Pay attention or you're going to get hit again!"

"Right, yes, sorry," he says hoarsely, blinking into her furious blue eyes. She flies off and he takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. The game seems to be playing in slow motion, and his eyes dart around until he sees the quaffle. It's being passed between the Slytherin chasers and they're headed his way. His jaw tightens and he leans forward, intent.

Let them come.

Three hours later, the score is holding steady at 90 to 90. John's got a headache from squinting in the bright light, but he's stopped over twenty attempts at a goal and he's ready for this game to end. He flips his broom up, left leg sliding free to kick out at the quaffle when it comes near again, and swings himself back around just in time to see the seekers - finally - chasing after the snitch. He tries not to watch, because the quaffle is still out there too, but everyone is a little bit preoccupied and that makes it easy to block his twenty-second goal.

There's a long minute where the seekers get tangled together and the whole stadium seems to hold its breath, but then a hand clad in yellow pops up waving the snitch and a wave of shrieking begins from the Hufflepuffs and crawls into the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, drowning out the sound of the announcer declaring the winner. John lets out a cheer and gratefully guides his broom down towards the ground. His thighs ache as he clambers off, setting feet against ground for the first time in what feels like hours, and his knees threaten to buckle when he straightens up. He always feels that way after flying for an extended period of time, like his body is rebelling against gravity.

"We did it!" Murray bellows in his ear, nearly deafening him, and John laughs.

"Fuck yeah we did!" he shouts back, because no one thought they could. The galleons had been placed on Slytherin to win this game, and it feels sweet to know that they've come from underneath and swept it all. He grins, giddy with adrenaline and success, and doesn't even protest when the whole team gets swept up into a group hug. Murray's arms are around him and he feels like he's going to pop but from the pressure, but damn it's good.

From within the circle of Murray's and Sawyer's arms, he looks up. Can't stop himself from searching over Sawyer's sun-streaked hair as the excited fans begin to pour onto the field. He doesn't have to look far to find Professor Holmes, because the man is still seated even though the professors' box is swiftly emptying. Holmes is looking in John's direction, and slowly he nods. Just once but it's a nod, right before he stands up and quickly disappears. No doubt he won't be seen at dinner tonight, having made his daily appearance.

But that one nod feels better than any of the congratulations and praise that the others heap onto his shoulders.

Unfortunately, someone else also notices. Sarah Sawyer had a crush on John, once upon a time, but she let it go once she realized that John's interests lay elsewhere. Now she just seems to enjoy teasing him about it every chance she gets, and this time proves to no exception. As they walk down to Potions the next morning, she smirks at John and goes, "I saw you and Holmes yesterday."

"What's that?" Stamford says with interest. He's a Ravenclaw but he likes to walk with them on the way to classes whenever he cane, and when he says it loudly enough that everyone else turns around to look John fervently wishes he'd go walk with someone else.

"It's nothing," John hisses.

"Holmes came to the game last night just to see Watson," Sawyer says.

"Really?" someone else says with interest.

"No! Not really. I have no idea why he was at the game." John presses his bag tighter to his chest, forbidding himself from blushing. It's no secret, his admiration for Holmes. How could he _not_ admire the man, really? Holmes is bloody brilliant. The way he looks at the world, how he can deduce things from the smallest bits of information, the talent he's got with Potions: he's created solutions that no one else can conceive of, solved riddles that have plagued Potion Masters for years. Sure he can be a git sometimes, but after seven years John thinks of him... well, not fondly. Or indulgently. Or anything that makes him sound anything more like a love sick teenager.

"Right," Sawyer drawls, exchanging a grin with Stamford. "And Professor Hooper's not head over heels for him either, right?"

"Don't compare me to her," John says, because dear Merlin he hopes he's not as bad off as Hooper. She's been in love with Holmes for years and it's kind of pitiful to watch. "Seriously, I don't think about Holmes that way."

No one looks convinced by that, and really that's no surprise because it's a complete lie. John's lost count of how many mornings he's woken up with damp underwear after a night spent dreaming about long fingers and a bow-shaped mouth. Sometimes it's all he can do to force himself to pay attention in class long enough to not blow something up. That's the easiest way to get Holmes's attention, of course, but not even John wants to be one to draw his ire on that account: their professor possesses a razor sharp tongue and the ability to land scathing hits right where they hurt the most. You only make that sort of mistake once before the lesson gets learned.

Sawyer shoots him a speculative look but she drops it as they file into the class. Everyone takes a seat, and then Professor Holmes stands up and looks them over. He says pointedly, "The clear, concise instructions are on the board. Hopefully none of you are too stupid to follow them." And then he sits back down and resumes scribbling away on the piece of parchment on his desk.

John has to hide a smile as he watches his classmates give each other disbelieving looks. He glances at the board, noting the ingredients, and then goes to collect what he needs. They're creating an antidote to the sleeping potion they brewed last week, and he ends up being paired with Stamford. He doesn't mind; John's good at chopping up ingredients, and Stamford pays enough attention to make sure that each one goes into the cauldron just when it's supposed to. But not everyone is so lucky. Midway through the class, a Ravenclaw squeals loudly right before there's an explosion. At the first sound of the warning yelp, John ducks and drags Stamford down with him. 

"Knight!" Holmes roars, sounding utterly disgusted. "Can you not be trusted to brew such a simple potion, _honestly_." He stands up and sweeps over, eyeing the mess before glaring at the cowering student. "You added a willow seed instead of an ash seed, you idiot! You're fortunate that it exploded now, because if you had added the shrivelfigs you would've killed us all."

Knight's mouth falls open and then shuts uselessly. His partner says, "We didn't mean to."

"You never mean to," Holmes snaps. "Class dismissed. All of you, get out."

Most of the students don't hesitate to gather their things and make a run for it. John deliberately moves slower, watching as their professor takes his wand out and begins cleaning up the mess. The potion appears to be harmless - or at least, it's not bubbling or trying to eat its way through the desk. Actually it's turned clear, and it looks thick and goopy and a little familiar but he can't place it. 

"What is it?" John asks before he can stop himself, curious. 

Holmes looks over at him. "You don't recognize it?" he asks, mouth forming a hint of a smirk. "And here I thought you'd be intimately familiar with it, Watson. It's a form of lubrication."

"Oh. _Oh_." John knows he's blushing, can feel his cheeks turning red. "I don't - I mean, that's not - I wasn't -"

"Don't bother, I know what you get up to at night."

"You..." And he hopes desperately that it's an exaggeration, even though it's probably not. His hands shake a little as he picks up his bag and he turns to leave, because sometimes it's better to flee. There's a reason he's not a Gryffindor and it all comes down to knowing which battles have to be fought.

"Wait," Holmes says, and much to John's surprise there's actually a note of contrition in his voice. "I... apologize, Watson. That was rude."

"Yes," John says a little suspiciously. He's never heard Holmes apologize before, not even when he pissed off the Ministry and Hogwarts alike by disappearing for three days to solve a case he claimed the Aurors would never be able to solve on their own. "But I should be going anyway. It's NEWT year, I have loads of homework to be getting on with." But even as he says it, he sets his bag down. He doesn't really want to go. He'd much rather stay. It's not often he gets time alone like this with the professor. He looks at the mess. "Well... if you want, I do have a few minutes. I can help."

"Please," Holmes says after only a beat of silence, and John smiles and takes his wand out.

The clean up goes much faster with their combined efforts. John wields his wand easily, enjoying the feel of the magic as it bubbles through his veins, and he only becomes aware of the eyes watching him when they're nearly finished. He stills at the weight of that stare and looks up self-consciously. Unlike most people, Holmes does not look away or pretend that he's not been watching. He keeps staring, eyes locked on John's face, and he's wearing that vaguely calculating expression he gets when he's trying to figure something out. John swallows hard, not sure he wants to know what the clever man has been deducing.

"Um, so is that everything you needed?" he asks, trying to look away. He fails. The thing about those eyes is, they're so easy to fall into. They change colour constantly, flicking from green to blue to grey and back again, and some of the girls like to whisper that he's got such strange magic that it's spilled over. He blinks, finally, and that seems to break the spell. John turns hastily and reaches for his bag.

"No," Homes says, and his voice sounds very close now. John starts to turn back and freezes when a long, firm body presses up against his back, crowding him against the desk. Slender fingers come to rest on his waist, and he wishes desperately that he wasn't wearing his school robes over his trousers and shirt. It would be so easy for those fingers to touch bare flesh if he wasn't. He feels more than hears Holmes chuckle. "How old are you, John?"

"Seventeen," John whispers.

"And what do you plan to do after graduation? I know this is your last year. I'm confident you'll do well on your NEWTs, probably better than most of your classmates. Will you be an Auror?"

"I've... I've thought about it." He'd attended the recruitment meeting that the Ministry had held at Hogwarts, an information session geared towards trying to get new recruits. He has to admit, being an Auror does sound tempting. He likes the thought of tracking down rogue or dark wizards and bringing them to justice, even though being an Auror isn't nearly as dangerous now as it used to be when Voldemort and the Death Eaters still ran free. But he's not sure that's really what he wants to do. 

"Or maybe a Quidditch player," Holmes mutters. "You do like that appalling game."

"If you don't like it, then why did you come?" The question slips out without John's permission. The hands on his hips tighten momentarily before Holmes steps back and spins him around. He leans forward again, but this time it's the front of their bodies that are one single line.

"I came to watch you, John. I find it curious how your shoulder and thigh pain you until you forget about them and become focused. You concentrate so very hard when you're up in the air, it's adorable." He wrinkles his nose slightly, like he can't believe he just said that, and John looks at him dumbly.

"You... came to watch me?" he says. 

"I'm always watching you. If you weren't so focused on trying not to be noticed when you watch me, you would've realized. As always, you do not observe." One of the hands leaves his waist and catches his chin, tipping his head up. John barely has time to draw in a breath before Holmes is kissing him, an unexpectedly deep kiss that sends him reeling. He opens his lips on a gasp and shivers as a tongue immediately plunges inside, tracing the contours of his mouth. He threads his hands into the back of the fine dress robes and holds on when Holmes pull back, lips curved into a smirk.

John stares up at him, speechless. He has so many questions crowding through his mind that none of them can get to the surface, but what matters is this: Holmes wants him. He can feel it, the man's erection pressing solidly against his belly, and it makes him _want_. He licks his lips and slides a hand up until he can tangle it into that gorgeous, curly dark hair, tugging gently. Holmes lets his eyes drift shut, a soft moan escaping, and John can't resist pulling a little bit harder. Holmes moans again and pushes against him, and John's breath stutters off at the feel of a firm thigh nudging between his thighs. He can't believe this is happening. Has he fallen asleep again at his desk?

"I want..." he says a little helplessly, because the list is literally too long to be explained in just a few words. He's imagined anything and everything: those hands, that mouth. He wants it all and then some.

Holmes smiles. Actually smiles. "You can have," he says, "because you're mine. No one else will ever touch you, John Watson. If you agree, you can have as much as you want."

"Yes," John says immediately, without the slightest bit of hesitation. "Please, Professor."

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock." The name tastes odd on his tongue, and he feels even more aroused just curling his tongue around the final hard 'k'. He's only ever dared to whisper that name late at night with his hand on his cock, hidden behind silencing spells so that no one would be the wiser. Actually saying it out loud in front of the man himself feels dirty, embarrassing. His cheeks flush and Sherlock chuckles again.

"Adorable," he murmurs fondly, pulling John into another kiss. It's as deep and filthy as the first one, but this time John does his best to keep up. He's so focused on the kiss that he doesn't even notice Sherlock pulling at his clothing until he feels cold air hitting the bare flesh of his shoulders.

Sherlock's hands are cold too, skimming lazily across his skin like they have all the time in the world. He slides a hand between them and pinches at first one nipple, then the other, until both stand out as hard brown peaks on John's chest and he's squirming. His nipples have never been particularly sensitive until now, but through the haze enveloping his mind he can admit that anything and everything Sherlock does only seems to get him wound up that much more. 

"I don't," he starts, and then stops because maybe he shouldn't be admitting that.

"I know. Like I said, I've been watching you for a while now. You've only ever been with a girl, and you've got no further than touching her bra," says Sherlock, making quick work of John's trousers. His goal seems to be to get John naked as quickly as possible while remaining fully clothed himself; every time John makes an attempt at getting his robe off, Sherlock skilfully dodges. In less than thirty seconds, John's trousers and boxers are sliding down his thighs and his half-erect prick is bobbing freely.

He wants nothing more than to feel Sherlock's hand on him, but the touch comes at his hips and turns him around. John goes willingly enough, confused, and finds himself pressed against the desk. The feel of all that clothing against him, especially the hardness nudging against his lower back, makes him realize all over again how wrong this is. If the headmaster caught them he would be furious, and there's a chance that John could be kicked out and Sherlock be left unemployed. 

But oh, it feels so fucking _good_. His entire body feels extremely sensitive, the finely woven cloth of Sherlock's robes catching at his skin and making him tremble. Fingers run across his buttocks, pulling them apart so that Sherlock can rock his hips in between. John's knees go weak at that rough pressure against the most intimate, untouched part of him and he drops his head and leans forward, suddenly grateful that the desk is right in front of him less he do something humiliating like collapse.

He lets his eyes close and focuses on the feel of it all. On Sherlock's thumbs, digging into the flesh on the inside of his buttocks, massaging almost painfully as he grinds forward. On his fingers, cupping the rest of his arse and kneading. Sherlock's weight presses him down until he's bent nearly flat, and then he's just there: on top of John, hips moving in small circles. The desk hits him just above his belly button, leaving plenty of room for his hardening cock. He thrusts uselessly against the air, needing to feel more. A whine builds in his throat and he tries to slip a hand down.

"No." A hand pins his wrist to the table instantly. 

"But -"

"I said no."

Frustrated, John arches his back. "Then do _something_ , please."

Sherlock steps back.

"That's not exactly what I had in mind," John mutters, closing his eyes briefly. Sherlock's right, he's never got very far with anyone before. But his imagination has more than made for lack of experience. He draws in a deep breath and starts to lift his head, realizing that he's staring at the door. The partially open door that anyone could walk through. Horrified, he starts to protest - 

And a cool finger, slick and sticky, rudely pushes inside of him with no warning. The words on the tip of his tongue die immediately, replaced by a choked gasp. His elbows fold and he collapses back across the table, hands tightening into fists. Sherlock runs a hand down his spine as he slides his finger deeper and twists, casually, as though they've got all the time in the world. 

He pulls back, replaces just one with two, long and sliding as deep as they can. He crooks them, scissors, running his thumb around the edge of the rim. John shudders at the sensation, his legs trembling from the strain of holding him up. It feels strange to have something inside of him for the first time, he's caught between wanting to bear down and wanting more, and the little bit of a burn makes everything feel that much brighter. 

Then Sherlock, he does something with his wrist, John doesn't know what, and a sweet rush of pure pleasure shoots up his spine. His cock spurts a thin stream of pre-come across the floor and he whimpers, squirming and wriggling, pinned by the fingers in his arse and the hand on his lower back. Sherlock chuckles, low and deep, right in his ear and does it again. 

"Bloody hell," John whispers raggedly. "Professor!"

"I told you to call me Sherlock, John."

"I - oh god -" His mind is melting, pleasure crackling a solid line into every nerve, and it's all he can do to stay still. 

"Do you want to come, John? Would you like that?"

"Yes," he manages. "I - yes."

"Then ask me." As he speaks, Sherlock twists his hand and begins rubbing his thumb across the space between his thighs, just below his balls. John sobs at the renewed onslaught of pleasure, in a matter of seconds he won't need to ask because he can feel it coming, more than he's ever felt before.

"Please, I need to - oh Merlin, please let me come, Professor, I'm begging you. I can't stop it, I'm going to, _please_ -" He whines in protest when the combined pressure eases and, through the enveloping fog, breathes out, " _Sherlock please_."

The fingers that fist his cock are experienced, knowing just where to touch and how, and within three quick pumps John is coming. His legs give out and he falls hard against the table, whimpering and moaning Sherlock's name continuously. Anyone walking by would be able to hear but he can't seem to shut himself up. He shivers all over as the streams of semen slow and finally stop, knowing that the floor beneath the desk must be a filthy mess again, and Sherlock just keeps rubbing and rubbing until John begs him to stop.

Only then does Sherlock slide his fingers out of John's body. He's breathing a little heavier and it only takes John a few seconds to realize that Sherlock has not yet come. He turns around on heavy legs, looking up at his professor. There's a heated flush on Sherlock's face, outlining those gorgeous cheekbones. His fringe is damp with sweat and hangs in his eyes, but there's no hiding that heated expression. He looks hungry and John feels a little like a meal waiting to be devoured. 

"Can I -" He reaches out a hand, looking at the obvious bulge that not even Sherlock's robes can hide.

"On your knees," Sherlock says, and John obeys automatically. His legs fold without conscious agreement and he hits the ground still looking up. Sherlock pulls his robes aside and flips the button on his trousers, pulling his cock out without taking anything off. He's longer than John, about the same thickness, ruddy and flushed purple with a little bead of pre-come at the tip. John starts to lift a hand again and Sherlock pulls back, out of reach, and then takes hold of his cock. He starts pulling furiously, never taking his eyes off of John's face.

Oh, John thinks, and he widens his eyes and runs his tongue across his bottom lip, and Sherlock groans loudly and comes, spurting across John's face and chest. The taste is bitter, but not unpleasant. John swipes a hand across his eyes and blinks just in time to see Sherlock tucking himself away before he kneels down. He cups John's cheek and looks at him. The hunger hasn't left his expression.

"Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?" he inquires.

"I - No?" John says uncertainly, because this is isn't what he expected and he can't tell if Sherlock wants him to say yes or not.

"The Ministry has asked me to look at something in London," Sherlock says. "I would not be opposed to having a competent assistant."

And John thinks about the possibilities: him and Sherlock, not just student and professor, in a hotel room. 

Alone. 

"Oh god yes," he says emphatically, and drags Sherlock down into a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


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